


In the Eye of the Storm

by Vrazdova



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: (so much kissing), Anxiety and Intrusive Thoughts, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Past Abuse Mention, Political and Personal Problems, Post-Book(s), Trouble In Paradise, the working title was 'Melodrama and Fuckin' and that still about sums it up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:59:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7871197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrazdova/pseuds/Vrazdova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years into their rule, the goal of uniting their kingdoms has proved more difficult to achieve than either Damen or Laurent anticipated. At the end of his wits, Laurent makes a desperate trip to Ios to unload his heavy burdens—and hopefully make some discoveries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to get into Laurent's head. I imagine it's quite noisy in there.
> 
> A HUGE THANKS to [inter_spem_et_metum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inter_spem_et_metum/pseuds/inter_spem_et_metum) for picking this over with a fine-toothed comb! If you're into _Hannibal_ or _Sherlock_ , I **highly** recommend you check out her amazing work!

Voices rumbled down the marble corridor like a steady roll of thunder, masking the click of Laurent’s boots as he approached the heavy door at the end. At the sight of him, the guards flanking it bowed and stepped aside, pushing one panel ajar and spilling more noise into the hall.

Laurent slipped through and quickly surveyed the scene: several kyroi stood or sat around the center of the auditorium, rapt in heated discussion. Further back, lesser governors and spectators filled the seats and muttered amongst themselves. The roar of competing voices grew rapidly louder until a broad figure stood, swathed in white and red and gold, and effectively called for silence with the raise of an arm. The crowd hushed, all eyes on the King. Laurent took a seat and unpinned his heavy cloak.

“My brothers and sisters, I know this matter is dear to your hearts. I appreciate the passion you have all shown on the floor today, but shouting over one another is no way to resolve the issue. I have invited all of you to speak because I value your input, but I must insist that we keep order.” Damianos’ voice rang clear around the auditorium. Even at this distance, his height was impressive, accentuated by the drape of his long chiton and blood-red chlamys. Laurent squinted. It looked as though Damen had grown a beard.

“Exalted!” A woman, flushed with rage, boldly stepped forward. “Slavery has been an honored tradition in this kingdom for countless generations. To suddenly release the slaves would bring ruin to the noble families who rely on them, and chaos to the streets. We are willing to consider reform for the handling of slaves, but to _criminalize_ this entire aspect of our culture is madness!” Several grunts of assent from the audience followed.

“The abolition of slavery is _not_ what is up for discussion. I made that clear at the start of this meeting.” Damen’s tone was calm but deadly serious. “What we are discussing is how best to transition from a slave-culture to one that _values human dignity over tradition_ , and avoid such ‘ruin and chaos,’ as you fear. The notion that this practice is at all honorable is a fallacy—one that has been ingrained into our society by crueller ancestors, and gone unchallenged for far too long. Some of our sister nations, who respect us elsewise, look down upon our continued enslavement of our own people—and for that, we should be ashamed. It is no secret that I have personally borne this shame upon me. I now call upon every citizen of Akielos to humble themselves likewise. _We shall not abide this practice any longer._ ”

The hall erupted once again in a clash of angry shouts and applause. Laurent shifted in his seat to peer around the figures that had suddenly blocked his line of sight. He saw Nikandros move protectively towards the King, while simultaneously trying to placate a furious kyros nearby. Another moment later, Damen’s voice rose above the din.

“ _Enough!_ This meeting is adjourned. The discussion will continue in the coming days, but anyone who wishes to have their opinions heard must now submit a written proposal. If you cannot keep order, you will forfeit your right to have a say in the matter. _Dismissed._ ”

Amid a torrent of heightened emotions, the grumbling crowd made a swift exit. Laurent waited until the last nameless noble had stormed up the aisle before he finally stood, a flutter of excitement rising in his chest. He made his way down to the center of the room, where only the King and his closest advisors remained, gathering up the papers that had been disturbed over the course of the meeting.

“That was an impressive scene. You should invite an artist to sit in on the next meeting. Such an historical event deserves a visual record.”

Nikandros made a small sound of surprise at the sight of Laurent, then glanced sideways at his King. Damen absently looked up from the scroll in his hands, his brow deeply creased in thought and taking a moment to register the sudden shift in atmosphere. Laurent prickled with delight at the way Damen’s expression changed once his gaze fell upon him: his eyes grew wide, lips parting slightly before curving into the sincerest smile Laurent had seen in months. Damen tossed the scroll onto the table and hastened toward him.

“Laurent!” he said, near-breathless, as he clasped Laurent’s shoulders and gazed at him as though witnessing a miracle. Laurent couldn’t have kept the smile from his own lips if he’d tried.

“Exalted. Majesty,” said Nikandros, with respectful nods to each of them. “I’ll see you at the banquet.”

“Thank you, Nikandros. You’ve been a great help, as always,” Damen replied airily. Nikandros turned on his heels, herding the other remaining officials out of the room along with him.

Damen’s attention quickly returned to Laurent. He took him into his arms, and Laurent eagerly met him with a kiss that was sweet and sorrowful and hungry all at once. Tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying suddenly eased from Laurent’s shoulders, and he leaned heavily into Damen, savoring the warm strength of his embrace.

Damen pulled back just far enough to look into his eyes. “I wasn’t expecting you. Could your message have been intercepted?”

“I didn’t send one,” said Laurent. “I decided to come as soon as I received your last letter. I boarded the first ship heading south.” And he kissed him again, before he could dwell too long on Damen’s look of concern.

“This is a wonderful surprise,” Damen murmured against his lips. “It’s been so long.” He paused in consideration. “How long _has_ it been?”

“Five months and seven days,” Laurent said, too quickly. He’d begun counting at Day 1. He _always_ began counting at Day 1 whenever they parted ways, and nothing he did could make him lose track of his mental tally, much as he wanted to. As much as it would help ease the agonizing passage of time.

Damen ran his fingers through Laurent’s hair, wind-swept and a bit tangled. “Your hair is getting long,” he said, probing delicately so as not to pull any knots. This was Damen as Laurent knew him best: tall and stoic, and yet ever so gentle. Elegant, even, in his own way.

“As is yours.” Laurent grazed his fingertips along Damen’s chin and traced the strong line of his jaw. His beard was dark and neatly trimmed—just full enough to frame his face in a mature but handsome way. “It suits you,” he said, voice lowering to a near-whisper.

_You look like a true King_ , he thought.

Laurent rested his hand aside Damen’s chin, lightly stroking the coarse hairs with his thumb. “I hate that we’ve been apart so long that we notice such drastic differences in each other’s appearance.” _There are dark circles under your eyes, too—ones that weren’t there last time. They must match mine._

“I know,” said Damen softly. “It won’t be like this forever. We’ll make our home together at Marlas someday, like we’ve planned. Once all of this settles.”

“It won’t be soon enough.”

Damen rested his forehead against Laurent’s. “No. Never soon enough.”

* * *

“Akielons are spoiled. Winter in Ios is so lovely and mild.”

They strolled, arm in arm, through the frozen gardens on the outskirts of the palace grounds. Tiny snowflakes drifted lazily around them, dusting the silhouettes of dormant plants and empty flower beds. The air was pleasantly still after nearly two weeks of gale-force winds and icy rain at sea. Damen had remarked fondly on Laurent’s reddened cheeks and the scent of salt lingering in his hair—and while his words were flattering, Laurent was relieved to finally be away from it, feet firmly set on dry land. That this land was not Vere was an even greater relief, still.

“You arrived before the stormiest months,” said Damen. “Don’t let one nice day fool you into thinking it’s always so pleasant.”

“Parts of Vere are already knee-deep in snow. I am sure I’ll prefer whatever attempts at winter Akielos has to offer. You may keep your sweltering summers, though.”

Damen smiled warmly. “Winters in Akielos, summers in Vere? That could be a nice arrangement.”

Laurent met the proposal with a grimace. “I would withstand the most unpleasant, sweltering climate so long as I did not have to return to Vere.” He took a step forward and was stilled by the resistance of Damen’s arm. He turned back to see his companion had stopped in his tracks.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Damen said, and Laurent hated to see the pity in his eyes.

The many possible answers raced through his mind like a thumb fanning the pages of a book. This was the question he had known was coming; had expected from the moment he’d ordered Jord to accompany him on a reckless, spontaneous trek from Arles to Ios on the cusp of winter. It was the question he’d flippantly ignored when his advisors had demanded it, but to which he knew he would need to respond now that he faced Damen at last. He’d had weeks to think it through, to sculpt and compose the perfect sequence of words to convince them both that there was nothing out of the ordinary about a King abandoning his duties and fleeing his country on a whim. That the past five months had not set him on the verge of breaking; that the sight of an intricate wax seal and the particular scrawl of foreign handwriting had not pushed him over the edge, splintering his heart and forcing all logic from his mind. What was wrong? _What was wrong?_

_Everything_ , he wanted to say.

“I just needed a respite,” he said finally, holding onto one last shred of hope of avoiding elaboration. “I needed to clear my head.” He had tried to keep his voice light, even knowing that he had never quite mastered the art of keeping secrets from Damen.

“You’ve come too far to lie to me now,” said Damen, dropping his arm and finding Laurent’s hand with his own. “Please. Tell me what’s happening.”

Laurent’s breath caught in his throat as he fumbled for his resolve. “Where do I begin?” he said with a strangled laugh. “I have no control over my kingdom. Loyalties remain violently split. Even though my uncle was discredited, my reputation amongst significant factions is no better than it was before I was crowned. Still others consider me a traitor for marrying an Akielon. Specifically—”

“The Prince-killer _._ ”

“...The Prince-killer,” Laurent echoed miserably. “It’s impossible to make progress when I can barely keep my head above water. My Councillors are dropping like flies. Some days I truly fear for my life. There have been uprisings in the capital and rumors of worse to come. Vere is just… _rotten_ , from the inside out. I’m paralyzed. I don’t know what to do.”

When he had imagined this confession countless times before, he’d feared he would break down in tears before the end. In truth, it merely left him feeling empty and numb, as though the words had been the only filler for the empty space within his hollow shell of a body. Dry bones and sagging skin and limp, salty hair; these were all that remained of his once-golden youth. “King” as a precedent to his name had never sounded quite right. Clearly, the majority of Vere had never thought so, either.

Damen pulled him close, as Laurent knew he would. He wrapped his arms around him and kissed the top of his head, and said nothing for a while, all as Laurent had expected—for that was Damen as he knew him best: reliable, comforting, protective. And yet, knowing the intricacies of his lover’s methods of comfort did not diminish their effect. Nor was this knowledge ever a suitable replacement for the real, tangible thing—even as Laurent had spent weeks and months trying to convince himself that he was doing just fine on his own. After all, he had sailed a thousand miles solely for the comfort of falling into this embrace, and as he faintly trembled against Damen’s chest, he thought: It was worth it. _It was worth it._

“You’ve mentioned your troubles in your letters. I’m sorry I never understood the depth of their severity.”

The words sent a stab of pain through Laurent’s chest. Of all the things he could have said— _Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Write more clearly? Send for help?_ —Damen had chosen to take the blame upon himself. To apologize for not reading Laurent’s mind across the sweeping distance of their two countries.

Laurent’s voice wavered once as he spoke. “I diminished the weight of my troubles in writing. I should be able to handle it myself, and you have your own kingdom to rule.”

“Vere is as much my concern as Akielos is yours,” Damen countered, his tone gentle but firm. “I have neglected my duties as Prince Consort.”

“No, I—” Laurent softly pushed away from Damen’s embrace. It was too much. Their time and distance apart was destroying him, morphing their connection into something strange and unnatural. He was ashamed that Damen’s first impression of him in five months was one of such weakness; he couldn’t bear to see how quickly Damen turned to deference.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. When they’d exchanged their cuffs for rings nearly two years ago, they had both been strong, confident, on equal standing. After parting ways for the first time, with a promise to reunite in Delpha, they had each held onto the hope that they would leave their capitals before the year had ended. But as soon as one problem was resolved, two more seemed to replace it; and their first anniversary had passed with no time or opportunity for celebration. Now, as they approached the close of the second year of their near-absentee marriage, it felt almost as if they were meeting as strangers, held together by a storybook fantasy—the false promise of a happily-ever-after that they were never destined to reach.

It was all wrong. It had _always_ been wrong between them; fate had worked hard to keep them apart and at odds with each other since the beginning—since even before their lives had first become intertwined. They had been teased and taunted by fleeting moments of happiness along the way—at Karthas, at Mellos. Their wedding at Marlas had been foolishly optimistic—a hope of transforming the monument of their strife into a symbol of rebirth and renewed unity between their kingdoms. In the nearly two years since, fate had cruelly continued to toy with them, holding peace and pleasure always just out of reach, time chiselling away at whatever watered-down hope and strength remained.

_It’s over. It was never meant to be. The dream of one kingdom and this._

_Give up._

“Laurent? Laurent, stay with me.” A voice broke through the suffocating fog in his mind. His eyes refocused, and there was Damen—sweet, selfless Damen, who had stood beside him through all the lies and cruelty and horror, and—

“You’re retreating into yourself,” said Damen softly. His palms were wonderfully warm against Laurent’s wind-chapped cheeks. “I’m glad you’re here now. We can think this through together.”

A sudden urgency overwhelmed Laurent as he gazed up at him. His throat stung, chest tightened, and the distinct feeling of time slipping uncontrollably through his fingers set his heart pounding. The words, meaningful as he knew they would be, hovered on his lips for a moment before they came tumbling out: “I don’t want to think at all. Not tonight.”

* * *

The echo-strung quiet of the baths was another welcome change from the roaring, roiling sea. Laurent slipped down into the steaming water until it rose to the bridge of his nose and held perfectly still as the ripples smoothed over. After a few moments, his lungs began to burn with the need for oxygen, but he remained where he was—eyes set, unblinking; sheltered by the expanse of water around him. He was a sea serpent, lying in wait for his prey.

It was a game that he and his brother had played when they were both very young. While the predator rested, the prey would try to sneak past him, disturbing the water as little as possible. Inevitably, the one playing the serpent would launch forward with a sudden splash and give chase around the pool. When he finally caught his shrieking victim, their roles would reverse. The game would continue until someone came to scold them for making too much of a mess.

He waited, and waited, but no one attempted to glide past him. The baths were entirely empty at this hour, save for a single servant—now a paid attendant rather than a slave—standing politely near the entrance on the chance that his assistance was needed. Laurent pushed himself above the surface with a small gasp.

It wasn’t that he was particularly missing Auguste on this occasion; he never _stopped_ missing Auguste, not really. What he missed most keenly at the moment were the carefree days of childhood, long before either of them had been required to focus on political responsibilities, or the ruling of a kingdom after the inevitable end of their father’s reign. Back in the days of frivolous books and mock swordfights and boring, pointless language lessons; time had seemed to move so slowly, and the future was still a long way off. Looking back on it now, though, it didn’t seem so long ago after all.

Acting as King was nothing like his father or brother or uncle had made it seem. Or perhaps the delusion had come from himself, after so many years of shirking his princely duties and staying as much out of the spotlight as possible, never having prepared himself for the role in earnest. He enjoyed ordering people around, certainly; but the responsibilities of a ruling monarch were quite different from those of a rebellious prince who was never expected to succeed.

Desperate wartime strategy did not equate to the difficulties of overhauling a spoiled society. Soldiers in the heat of battle had been far more eager to jump at his commands than the comfortable civilians who gave little thought to the careful webs of economy and exchange that he’d been trying—and failing—to weave. It was almost laughable how he’d maintained a small-scale tyrannical reputation as Prince, and yet could barely claim control now that he was King. Another lingering gift from his late uncle, no doubt. After all, it was the Regent’s mess he was still trying to clean up.

He had hardly expected to actually take the crown. He could blame his ill-preparedness on his own premature resolve towards an early death—but on that point, Damen had already placated him as well. _You were surviving. You had to focus on yourself_ , he’d said, and Laurent hadn’t corrected him. He had been _drifting_. Only his basest bodily instincts had kept him from succumbing to the easiest way out. He had willingly faced the threat of death several times over the years—but at the very least, never by his own hand.

The bath attendant shifted quietly. With a glance, Laurent could see that the young man looked bored, not having been indoctrinated with the slaves’ ideology on the merits of subservience. He wondered vaguely if the lure of a few meager coins at the end of a tedious week were not a kind of slavery in its own right, but he pushed the thought away for the time being. He was already miserable enough without also taking the weight of Akielos’ troubles onto his shoulders.

Yet he was still duty-bound to Akielos on this night—even with having disembarked from his journey only a few hours before. Tonight was the first feast of the winter solstice in Ios, which the King was, of course, expected to attend. And as Laurent had so conveniently arrived at the palace earlier in the day, he would do well to make an appearance by his husband’s side. He had run away from one set of responsibilities straight into the arms of another.

It had been with a look of heavy regret that Damen had informed him of the inescapable banquet. After Laurent had, in his roundabout way, all but begged to be taken to the King’s chambers and fucked senseless, Damen had answered the sentiment with a deep and heady kiss, the heat of his own growing desire pressing hard against Laurent’s hip. They had indulged in lips and teeth and tongues in the garden for a time, but when their fervor finally slowed enough for them to consider each other fully, Laurent could tell, before Damen had even said a word, that he wasn’t going to take him anywhere just yet.

Five months and seven days—what was waiting one day more?

_One week more?_

_One month more?_

The awful truth was that each period of separation had stretched out longer than the last. To imagine how long the next would be was an exercise in despair.

Laurent stepped out of the basin and silently accepted a towel from the attendant. He dried himself off, and then indicated that the young man should help lace him into his fresh clothes. The Akielon servant went about it with predictable clumsiness, and Laurent sighed inwardly. He no longer found the _need_ for assistance in such basic tasks amusing. Not for the first time, he wondered if this Veretian court fashion hadn’t been invented specifically to render the nobles helpless in the most asinine manner possible.

He smoothed the front of his finely embroidered jacket, pointed out a few puckered laces for the attendant to fix, and then considered what to do about his hair. In truth, it had grown long solely due to negligence. For as much as he did care about his appearance, he simply hadn’t had the time to keep up with this particular aspect of grooming. But if their brief liaison in the garden had been any indication, Damen was quite fond of the new look, and so Laurent decided he would keep it for the time being.

He settled on clipping his hair back, loose and tousled, and crowned himself with a modest gold circlet. It was formal enough for the occasion, but not showy enough to outshine the King. Then, at last, he found himself out of distractions. It was time to make his entrance at the feast.

* * *

A relative hush fell over the expansive banquet hall as he stepped through the doorway. Only the musicians continued on uninterrupted as the revelers near the entrance made to bow before their Prince Consort. Laurent motioned for them to relax. He immediately set his sights on the more lavishly decorated cluster of seats in the far corner of the room, hoping to plant himself there and interact with the other attendees as little as possible for the next few hours.

The din of lively conversation quickly returned as Laurent crossed the hall. He’d made it about halfway when a hand clapped his shoulder roughly from behind.

“Exalted!” boomed a voice, drunkenly addressing him with the Akielon title. “Welcome home. Wonderful of you to join us for the solstice feast!”

An unexpected twinge of delight touched him at the notion of Akielos being _home_. Laurent gave a polite smile, but shifted just enough so that the hand dropped away.

“A pleasure to see you again, Makedon,” he said, his own voice conspicuously quieter and more reserved in tone. “I trust you’ve been well.” Thus began the tiresome pleasantries of the evening. It took every ounce of Laurent’s self-restraint to keep from rudely dismissing his interloper and turning on his heel. _That was the old way. We are maintaining sincere alliances now_ , he reminded himself. _This is worth suffering through._ He needed to reserve his attitude for the times in which it would be most effective. A holiday celebration did not qualify.

Makedon soon launched into a rambling tirade about the trials of shifting political structure, certainly overstepping his boundaries on more than a few points. But in times like these, an abundance of wine and a hearty laugh at the end of it all made an adequate enough excuse for questionable behavior.

Laurent let his words dissolve into the mesh of voices surrounding them as he scanned the room. To his disappointment, Damen did not immediately stand out amid the sea of dark curls, white robes and silk capes; but he did catch sight of a familiar face—one of his Veretian soldiers from the early days. _What was his name?_ _The one who’d chased the skirts of the triple-crown champion._ The young man was happily chatting away in broken Akielon, sporting the local fashion. Clearly, he’d earned his leave from the Veretian guard and had since assimilated into the Akielon culture. _Lazar_ , that’s what he was called.

He felt a pang of jealousy as he watched Pallas, glowing and handsome, approach Lazar and hand him a drink just before planting a kiss on his cheek. They shared a quick, besotted glance at each other before rejoining the lively conversation of those around them. One could have it all, so long as one weren’t a damned King, apparently.

Laurent returned his attentions to Makedon’s monologue in time to catch the change of subject. “Oh yes,” said Laurent, seamlessly feigning engagement. “I still owe you a hunt, don’t I.”

“A hunt and a rematch! I’ve brought down a barrel of griva for the holidays. It’s a fine batch—I’m sure you’ll agree!”

Laurent’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “I am sure I will, but not tonight, I’m afraid. You’ve already had a head start, and where’s the sport in that?” He tipped his head toward Makedon’s cup, which had been drained for what was undoubtedly the sixth or seventh time.

Makedon waved over a serving-boy and ordered him—perhaps a bit too gruffly for a non-slave—to pour fresh drinks for the both of them. Laurent clenched his teeth, mouth settling into a hard line. His patience was wearing dangerously thin, and he was no longer able to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“It _has_ been pleasant catching up, but I—”

“Makedon! Spare my husband your drinking games this evening. He didn’t come all this way to spend the feast with _you_.”

The old general let out a bawdy laugh at Damen’s words. Laurent quietly breathed out his exasperation as the King joined them, a cup in his own hand.

It was becoming difficult for Laurent to order his feelings into some semblance of rationality. Damen’s company should have been enough to lift his spirits, but his mood had so soured by the necessity of attending this event that he felt almost numb to the touch of Damen’s hand on his back. His body ached to lean into it, but his mind had locked him out. He stood stiffly while Damen and Makedon made easy conversation, all jests and smiles and friendly claps on the shoulder. And in the middle was Laurent, tight-lipped and dead-eyed, laced up from toe to neck in icy blue brocades: the old familiar frigid bitch of Vere.

At long last, they parted ways with Makedon. Damen’s arm remained wrapped around the small of Laurent’s back as they wove their way through the crowd toward the more private area reserved for the King. Even still, Laurent could see a small handful of people lounging comfortably there; Damen’s closest friends and advisors. Complete privacy was, naturally, out of the question in the midst of a feast.

“I was beginning to think you might not come,” said Damen in quiet Veretian.

“I was sorely tempted,” said Laurent, matching his language shift.

He felt Damen’s hand slide to his waist. “You’ve had a long day. No one would fault you if you slipped out early. Not that anyone else’s opinion is relevant in the matter.”

“I am quite aware. But as I’m already here, I would like to maintain appearances.”

“Well, then,” said Damen, steering him toward an unoccupied couch. “You should make more of an effort to _appear_ as though you’re enjoying yourself. Those of us who have had less to drink than Makedon can read the contempt on your face like words on a page. And that will do nothing to win you favors or friends here.” He kissed him tenderly, the softness of his lips a strange contrast to the coarse brush of his new whiskers. In spite of his mood, Laurent reciprocated with equal affection. “You look stunning, by the way.”

“Of course I do,” said Laurent, and he was furious that he couldn’t keep his dimples from showing. Oh, _this_ was Damen as he knew him best: confounding, flattering, and irritatingly _right_ —just as he’d been from the beginning, through every petty tantrum and every desperate attempt at resistance.

Laurent collapsed onto the couch as Damen caught his hand. Damen bowed and kissed his fingers like a hopeful suitor. “I’m afraid I have to uphold a few more social promises I foolishly made ahead of time. Stay here and relax, and I promise I’ll rejoin you shortly. The night will be ours soon.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior.” Laurent tried to sound sullen, but knew the look in his eyes gave away his anticipation. Damen rolled the ring on Laurent’s finger beneath his thumb, and then gave his hand a squeeze before turning back to the increasingly debaucherous fray.

Laurent heaved a dramatic sigh. He crossed his legs and reclined against the couch, allowing his head to roll lazily to the side. Seated alone at a low table nearby was Nikandros, quite obviously trying to make himself look occupied. Laurent watched him until he threw an absent glance over his shoulder. Nikandros quickly dropped his eyes, not having realized that he would meet Laurent’s gaze. “Majesty,” he muttered stiffly.

“Oh, call me Laurent. I know you still use Damen’s name with him in private.”

At this, Nikandros grew visibly flustered. Laurent had just invited a highly privileged level of familiarity between them with all the carelessness of filing his nails. In truth, the words _had_ been as impulsive as they’d seemed, but Laurent found himself enjoying the effect it had on Nikandros. He could tell he was struggling to think of an appropriate reaction. Laurent raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Tongue-tied?”

Nikandros made one last false start before finding the right words. “I cannot suddenly pretend we have ever been on especially good terms,” he said, with a look that begged for Laurent’s understanding.

“I am not asking you to. I have simply noted the familiar manner with which you address my husband, and propose you might as well extend that familiarity to me.”

“Might I?” He did not hide the suspicion from either his expression or his voice.

Laurent looked at him squarely. “Believe it or not, I am not actually trying to start a fight.”

After a moment of consideration, Nikandros relaxed. He shifted to face Laurent more directly and allowed his shoulders to drop. “I grew up with Damianos. He is like a brother to me. I know him like I know the lines of my own palm.” He hesitated, as though measuring the weight of his next words before releasing them. “But I don’t understand _you_ at all.”

_I don’t want you to_ , Laurent thought.

“I appreciate your directness,” he said, instead.

“I figured you would.”

The corner of Laurent’s mouth twitched in a smirk. Inwardly, he made another impulsive decision. “Then you understand more about me than you claim. Come, this can be the bonding opportunity that has eluded us for so long.” He pushed himself off the couch and claimed a seat opposite Nikandros, who could not have looked less enthused.

There was an entirely different storm of emotions roiling within Laurent regarding Nikandros. Truthfully, he _did_ respect him, but it was so easy to get under his skin that he found it difficult not to take advantage. _That was the old way_ , he tried to remind himself. There were things to be gained from finding common ground with Damen’s closest friend; boons even beyond matrimonial harmony.

He studied Nikandros, noting the fine lines around his mouth and eyes, the touch of grey at his temples. He was Damen’s age, but could easily pass for several years older. Laurent took up a pitcher and poured himself a shallow cup of water, then refilled Nikandros’ vessel likewise. Nearby, an empty-handed servant made a distressed gesture and swooped in to relieve the Prince Consort of this menial task. Laurent simply handed her the pitcher after he’d finished serving and waved her off without a word. He sipped. Nikandros’ cup remained on the table.

“Shall I start, then? I believe I understand a great deal about you already.”

Nikandros casually lifted his palm in an invitation to continue.

“I have noticed you sitting back here, alone with a stack of papers, since I arrived. Your cup contained no dregs of wine. You have either already had your fill of socialization for the evening, or have had no time to spare for it from the start. Already, we seem to have more in common than perhaps either of us expected.”

Laurent turned to scan the hall, and this time he easily spotted Damen in the crowd—mingling contentedly with friends, belly-laughs rising above the racket of music and conversation. Peripherally, he saw Nikandros follow his gaze.

“It is endless, grueling work, ruling a kingdom,” Laurent said, eyes shifting to watch Nikandros’ reaction. “And yet the King exhibits an enviable degree of vigor. What is his secret, I wonder?”

“He is a natural leader,” said Nikandros carefully. “Life is kind to the charismatic.”

“Charisma attracts loyalty and support, the value of which cannot be discounted.”

Nikandros lifted his cup to his lips and looked at Laurent with deliberation. Laurent could feel his gaze rake across his features, just as he had studied Nikandros a minute before. No doubt he was taking note of the bags beneath his eyes, the gauntness of his cheeks, the pallid wash of his skin. Nikandros took a sip of his drink. “And who supports the King in Vere?”

It stung more than it should have. Even as Laurent had himself led the conversation to this end, it pained him to have his private struggles laid bare. And yet, something had pushed him to invite Nikandros’ scrutiny, just as it had pushed him, incessantly, all the way from Arles to Ios. The thought of opening up even the slightest bit to someone he’d always kept at arm’s length sent an acrid taste to the back of his throat, but he trusted Damen—and as such, knew he should be able to trust Damen’s closest friend.

“Here we have arrived at the reason for my visit,” said Laurent softly, a grim smile flitting upon his lips. “If you truly understood nothing about me before, I trust you now have enough information to infer a great deal.” He sat back, returning his attention to the crowd of revelers. The musicians had just plunged into a lively number, and a circle had cleared for those who desired to dance. Damen was now in the midst of catching up with Jord; Lazar and Pallas hanging closely at their heels. The younger men looked eager to share some sort of happy news.

As Laurent watched, a wave of profound sadness swept suddenly over him. It filled his mouth and lungs, and he made no attempt to resist as it dragged him down into the deeper ocean of hopelessness he’d been struggling to keep his head above for the past five months. His chest contracted, and it took all the force of his will not to outwardly show that he was choking, drowning, fading away. He crossed his legs with deliberate nonchalance.

Across the table, Nikandros moved in the slow, quiet manner of one trying not to call attention to himself. He gathered his papers into a neat stack and set them aside, and then had the serving-girl bring him a cup of wine. He bade the girl wait as he asked Laurent, with a casual tone, “Care for a drink?”

Laurent did not stir, eyes still fixed on a point across the room.

“No.”

* * *

Despite the hearth’s glowing fire, the bedchamber was frigid. Laurent stood by the open window, the winter breeze numbing his skin and slowing his thoughts. Though near-dizzy with exhaustion, he couldn’t bear to crawl between the chilly sheets alone. He leaned his elbows on the sill and dropped his head into his arms.

He might have dozed off. It was the creak of the door that made him realize he’d lost awareness of his surroundings, of himself. He straightened, neck protesting stiffly, and turned to see Damen enter, vigorously rubbing his arms.

“Ah, there you are. It’s freezing in here.” Damen latched the door and quickly crossed the room.

“As though I might be somewhere else,” said Laurent with a yawn.

Damen pulled the window shut and then took Laurent in his arms, shivering as Laurent’s nose grazed the crook of his neck. “You’re like ice,” he said, and hugged him tighter.

“Then thaw me out.”

They kissed—slow at first, then with more urgency as their bodies warmed. Laurent’s pulse gradually quickened, toes and fingers tingling as his blood began to recirculate. He could taste a faint sweetness on Damen’s lips.

“How much did you drink?”

Damen frowned in earnest thought. “Three… no, four cups all night. Nothing in the last hour. I’m fine, but if you’d rather—”

Laurent interrupted him with another kiss that was sudden and desperate, wanton and starved.

“I don’t care,” he whispered against his lips. “I don’t want to talk.” He pushed his tongue into Damen’s mouth and kissed him hard, clutching the fabric of his clothing. “I don’t want to think,” he said, and claimed him with another hungry kiss. He pressed his hips against Damen’s groin.

“ _I just want to feel you._ ”

Laurent backed him into the wall, and kissed him so fervently that it brought forth a groan from Damen’s throat. Laurent looked into his husband’s eyes and found them dark with desire, his pupils black and impossibly wide. And he kissed him once more, every sense now on alert. Any semblance of the long day’s fatigue was suddenly chased back into the shadows of the room. They took a moment to catch their breath, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, before giving themselves up as creatures of taste and touch and flesh.

Damen’s mouth grazed the line of Laurent’s jaw, his lips sliding into the soft space below his ear. Laurent tipped his head to the side, baring his neck in encouragement as Damen planted a line of slow, sensual kisses down to his collarbone. The laces of Laurent’s nightshirt already undone, Damen slid the fabric open easily and continued down the curve of his shoulder, sending a shiver up Laurent’s spine. Laurent lifted his hands to the sides of Damen’s face and guided him back up for another kiss, savoring the clash of textures: soft lips, wet tongue, coarse whiskers.

Laurent felt Damen’s hands circle his thighs. They then slid to his hips, hitching up his nightshirt and exposing his arousal. He pressed forward again and sighed against Damen’s mouth, wrapping his arms around his neck. Damen traced his thumbs along the sharp edges of Laurent’s hipbones, following the lines of his pelvis and brushing against the sparse patch of hair at the crest. Laurent’s cock twitched in anticipation.

A faint moan escaped Laurent’s lips as Damen took his length in hand and ran a thumb up and down the underside of his shaft. Laurent squirmed under his touch, at once wanting to be beneath him, inside him, around him. Connected, conjoined. _Whole._

They shuffled backwards to the bed and collapsed into it, a tangle of limbs and cloth. Laurent removed the pin from the knot at Damen’s shoulder and watched the red silk slide over his back and onto the floor, rippling like liquid. Then he unhooked his belt and unwound the white chiton, pushing the last of the fabric away from Damen’s body to reveal an expanse of warm, dark skin and handsome muscles. He slid his hand up Damen’s abdomen, curving along his chest and around his shoulder. He wanted to touch every inch of him, to commit the landscape of his body to tactile memory, so that he could recall it with perfect clarity when they were again apart—

_No!_ This was not the time to think of such things.

Laurent centered his focus on the heat radiating from his lover as Damen moved closer, straddling Laurent and taking up the hem of his nightshirt. Laurent lifted his arms, allowing him to pull the garment over his head. Damen tossed it to the floor with the rest of their clothes. There was nothing between them now except air and skin and sweat. Laurent pulled him down, feeling the faint throb of his heartbeat echoing against his own.

The sheets were cold beneath his back; Damen was wonderfully, impossibly hot against his chest. They kissed again, and again, Laurent savoring the simple feeling of contact between their skin and the press of Damen’s weight atop him. For a moment, he allowed himself the simple dream of remaining this way forever.

But with a last, gentle nip, Damen pulled away and shifted onto his elbows. He gazed down at Laurent, whose arms were draped loosely above his head; hair a tangled, golden halo on the pillow beneath him. Laurent regarded Damen in turn; a dark, beautiful effigy of both softness and strength, his presence above him like a protective shield.

They stayed this way for some time, drinking in the sight of each other, until Damen’s lips broke into a wide smile.

“What?” whispered Laurent, dimpling tentatively.

Damen touched his forehead to Laurent’s. “I love you,” he said simply, his voice warm and deep.

He had said it many times before. Laurent remembered the way he had uttered it on their wedding night, breathy and reverent—both a conviction and a promise. He habitually concluded every letter with these words, and yet they still moved Laurent as deeply as they had the very first time. Laurent’s heart swelled, emotion stinging his eyes.

He lifted his head to kiss Damen in response, but his lover slipped away with a sly grin. He inched down Laurent’s torso, kissing his ribs and belly along the way. Laurent held his breath as Damen moved lower, and then released it in a rush as he felt him nuzzle the hair at the base of his shaft.

Damen took him again in his hand, gently coaxing him to full hardness. Then he wet his lips and lowered his head, and took him in his mouth.

It was still overwhelming. It was still difficult, sometimes. He knew, undoubtedly, that it was Damen here with him—would only _ever_ be Damen, whom he loved and trusted; who was gentle and kind. And oh, did it feel good. Even though his muscles tensed involuntarily and he had to remind himself to breathe, it still felt immeasurably, ecstatically good.

But then, it had always _felt_ good, even when it hadn’t _been_ good.

_No._

His breath hitched in an angry, silent sob. He had thought he’d gotten past this. It hadn’t been so bad last time, or even the time before—they had been playful in their intimacy, sharing laughter alongside pleasure. He _knew_ firsthand what it was like to make love without being plagued by the ghosts of terrifying thoughts and memories. But some scars healed ugly, and five months was a long time to spend facing them alone.

He wove his fingers through Damen’s thick, black curls just as he felt his tongue run up the length of his shaft. Damen teased the head, the slit; cupping his balls with one hand as the tip of his tongue traced intricate patterns along his sensitive flesh. Laurent squirmed, tiny sounds strangling in the back of his throat. Damen massaged the inside of Laurent’s thigh with his free hand, and then expertly took him deep inside his throat, all the way to the base.

Laurent’s hips gave an inadvertent jerk, even as his hands remained planted on the back of Damen’s head. He swiftly dropped his arms and breathed an anxious apology, his pulse racing uncomfortably fast.

Damen hummed as he slid, unhurried, back up Laurent’s length, his lips closing tight around the head before letting go. Then he pushed himself up beside Laurent and brought a hand to his cheek.

“It’s fine,” he said with a small smile. “You can be rough with me, if you’d like. No need to worry.”

Laurent rolled onto his side to face him, slipping one leg between Damen’s. He pressed his thigh against Damen’s groin, relishing the way it made him react. Then he inched closer and pushed his hips forward, their cocks brushing against each other. Damen’s chest rose and fell sharply with each breath.

Something like desperate fury ran hot through Laurent’s veins. Two years married, and ten years haunted. He was sick of having to be coddled and reassured in bed. It was no secret between them that Damen found him arousing with no effort on his own part, but Laurent wanted to _own_ it, _command_ it. He wanted to be in complete control of his desires, no exceptions, for once in his damned life.

He knew that _wanting_ didn’t equate to _having_ —but it could give him confidence for a night, at the very least.

He slipped his hand between their bodies and wrapped his fingers around Damen’s shaft. Lips parted and ghosting over Damen’s, he teased him with the promise of further contact as he slowly pumped his hand up and down. This time it was Damen who made small, needy movements under Laurent’s ministrations, and this pleased him greatly.

Laurent at last pushed his tongue into Damen’s mouth, and he felt his strong arm wrap around his back and pull him insistently closer. Now left with little room for movement, Laurent slowly circled his thumb over the head of Damen’s cock, spreading his wetness, enjoying the easy slide of skin over skin. He broke their kiss, and pulled back to look Damen in the eye.

“I love you,” he said, voice broken and low. “Now fuck me.”

It was a slow, deliberate dance that followed—a slick of oil, the coaxing of fingers. Laurent grasped the headboard, legs spread and knees digging into the mattress in anticipation. Damen stroked himself hard once again, and then positioned himself close. He wrapped one arm around Laurent’s chest; the other he used to gently guide himself in. Laurent gasped and gripped the headboard tighter as his flesh yielded to his lover’s body.

He told himself to breathe, to relax. The warm strength of Damen’s arm around his chest steadied him, and he shifted his hips to a more comfortable position. He nudged backwards, encouraging Damen to go deeper.

The next push elicited a soft groan. It had been so long—and the gaps between these liaisons were _always_ too long—that it was as though his body had to be reconditioned every time. Mentally, he craved it. Physically, he ached for it. Yet it was always a challenge to make everything connect, and this sent a fresh wave of angry determination through his veins.

_This is my body, under my control_ , he thought. _To give and take with it as I please. To be desired and shared, as of my own design._

Damen pulled out partway, then rolled his hips forward to push in deeper still. On his next slow thrust, Laurent met him with a backwards motion, and he heard Damen’s breath hitch even as Laurent himself cried out softly at the sensation. Now, with Damen’s length fully inside him, Laurent arched his spine and tipped his head back onto Damen’s shoulder. Damen brought both hands around Laurent’s chest, caressing him, grazing his taut nipples with the pads of his fingers. He kissed his neck, sucking the tender flesh. Laurent reached up with one hand to brush the long strands of his own hair out of the way.

Damen’s hands slid down the front of Laurent’s torso and found his cock, achingly hard and beading at the tip. With a firm grip, he stroked him several times, long and slow. Laurent’s head rolled in pleasure against Damen’s shoulder, tousled strings of hair slipping back into his eyes, and this time, he ignored them. As he writhed under Damen’s touch, a thrill of unbridled ecstasy at last began to take hold of him. Lightheaded, his vision obscured, Laurent’s mind was blocked from all other thoughts or words, in any language, except: “ _Yes.”_

He leaned forward and gripped the headboard as Damen began to thrust in earnest. The slick heat of Damen’s chest slid against his back as his lover shifted to match him, their bodies nesting perfectly together as though made specifically for this moment. There was nothing in his world but raw sensation: the fullness of Damen inside of him; the panting of his breath above him; the heady scent of his musk. He was love and lust and unyielding eroticism, all in one. _This_ was Damen as he knew him best.

As Damen slowed to rest his muscles, Laurent pulled away, allowing him to slip out. Damen threw him an inquisitive look as Laurent turned and placed his hands on his shoulders, switching their positions. He drew forward for a kiss. As lips clashed, Laurent guided Damen backward into the mattress. He hovered over him, damp hair curtaining the sides of his face. Then he swung a leg over Damen’s midsection and straddled him, reaching behind himself to grasp Damen’s cock. In a single, fluid motion he slid down, accepting him back inside himself with only enough resistance to make Damen gasp.

Damen shifted to center himself, then waited for Laurent’s direction. They gazed at one another for a moment in anticipation. Then Laurent braced his hands on the mattress at either side of Damen’s head, and began to move.

His torso rolled like the body of a serpent; back arching, chest heaving forward and back. He rode Damen slowly, deliberately, clenching only the muscles that made his lover’s breath catch. Damen reached up and smoothed the sweat-slicked strands of hair away from Laurent’s forehead, tucking a lock behind his ear. Then let out a groan as Laurent sat back and took him all the way in.

Laurent leaned in and kissed him, not halting in his steady rocking. He faltered only when he felt Damen’s hand close around his cock. He moaned against Damen’s lips but kept up his pace, the pleasure mounting with every thrust. At last, he reached the point where he simply needed _more, harder, faster_. He pushed himself upright once again, taking his length in deep. Damen met him halfway, unable to keep his own hips from thrusting. With his free hand, Damen dug his fingers into Laurent’s thigh; the other wrapped firmly around his cock, pumping in time with the movement of their bodies. Laurent caught his gaze and held it, lips parted, as the tension threatened to boil over at any second—

And then he was crying out, shuddering as he spilled onto Damen’s chest. Damen’s pupils blew wide as his hand continued to move over Laurent’s shaft, making sure not to deprive him the pleasure of a single, trembling aftershock.

At last, Laurent dropped his head to signal he was spent. Damen shifted his hand to grasp Laurent’s other thigh. With just a few thrusts more he reached his own climax, beautiful and powerful, Laurent’s name ringing from his lips like a prayer.

* * *

Laurent became aware of the brisk air cocooning him like an icy cloud. A thin silk sheet pooled over the curves and angles of his body, providing more a curtain of modesty than any semblance of warmth. He lay still for a moment, opening his eyes and taking in the diffuse light of the grey winter morning. The space beside him was undoubtedly empty.

In a thrill of sudden self-pity, he wondered if his trip to Ios hadn’t been entirely a dream. He might have convinced himself that this were true, were it not for the broad sweep of simplistic Akielon architecture gracing the room about him. Home or abroad, he had still managed to wake up cold and alone, and a bitter voice in the back of his mind whispered, _five months and eight days_.

He tried to use logic, to speak to himself as he would a petulant child. _Did last night mean nothing? You cannot expect to be the center of his attention at every waking moment. That is the relationship between slaves and masters, not lovers of equal standing._

_Slaves and masters_. A twinge of anxiety rose in his throat, as it had, privately, countless times before in the face of this subject. No matter how much evidence was shown to the contrary, Laurent could never fully shake the fear that Damen harbored some resentment over the way things had been between them at the beginning. It was impossible to imagine that he didn’t. It was only a matter of time before whatever had charmed him about Laurent lost its sheen, and old wounds were reopened, and all the trust and love and honor they’d built up between them was torn to shreds.

And with that, the hive of intrusive thoughts was summarily kicked, and his mind succumbed to its usual angry, incessant buzz.

Laurent rolled over and was surprised to find Damen kneeling before the hearth on the opposite side of the room. He felt a flash of embarrassment, as though his internal monologue had somehow been broadcast aloud. But Damen made no sign of acknowledgement as he went about the task of fanning the fire back to life, creating a picture of serene domesticity; wonderfully simple. Laurent watched him, calm and unguarded. The muscles in Damen’s back rolled as he worked; white scars faint against dark olive skin.

Laurent buried his face in the pillow.

There were times he’d mused on fantastical possibilities: If he could obliterate the past entirely, erase everything that had happened over the past ten years—the good _and_ the bad—would he do it? Sometimes, in the dark of night, when certain memories grew so vivid that they made him physically ill, he thought: _yes_. It might have meant they’d have never crossed paths. For all Damen’s optimistic talk of the traditional courtship and romance that could have been, their lives could just as easily have taken one of any other infinite paths—Laurent married off to Patras after all, Damen finding genuine happiness with any number of other fair-haired nobles. Neither of them aware of what they might be missing, but no worse off for it, either. Certainly, with fewer scars to show for it, both inside and out. _Would that be worth it?_

A dip in the mattress and a broad arm encircling his shoulders cast uncertainty on his answer. He eased into Damen’s embrace, warmth spreading throughout his body as their limbs tangled and lips found each other’s for a sweet and chary kiss. He nuzzled the crook of Damen’s neck, melting into the soft touch of his fingertips tracing circles on his back.

“Good morning,” said Damen, his voice still husky from sleep and sex. “Ready to talk?”

Laurent couldn’t know where he would be at this moment if things had gone differently. He couldn’t know if he’d be any happier after all, and he certainly couldn’t answer that question on Damen’s behalf—scars or none. All he could do was appreciate that _in this moment_ , he was undoubtedly loved, and wanted, and _valued_ —and damned if that wasn’t the best possible outcome for the course his life had been set upon years ago. Even with the struggles that persisted back in Vere. Even if this love might not last forever.

For all the things he fought to control, this was one he would do well to let willingly go. The other potential futures were irrelevant, because he was exactly where he was supposed to be—with Damianos by his side.

He found Damen’s left hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed the inside of his wrist, once restrained by a golden cuff. He feathered small kisses along the calluses on his palm, rough from wielding a sword to both destroy and protect. He curled Damen’s fingers over his own and kissed his ring, warm and smooth—slave-gold melted and reshaped into an ornament freely accepted and proudly worn. His lips lingered over the ring as he closed his eyes. He could feel Damen waiting patiently for him to speak.

“I miss you so much,” he said at last, without preamble. “I thought I thoroughly understood the pain of loss. That nothing could hurt worse than…” He let all the possible conclusions to that thought dissolve into the air around them. “I thought I had the means to bear any hardship at this point.”

Their fingers knitted together. Damen’s other hand continued to draw gentle circles along Laurent’s back.

“I had grown used to working through grief and heartache, but this is unlike anything I have ever experienced before. It is a torment to be apart from you.”

Laurent could feel the drum of Damen’s heart beating against his chest as he continued.

“Were I but a boy foolishly pining after love letters, there would be no harm in it. But it affects me more than it should, and Vere has long since had enough of fools acting as Kings. I’ve been losing focus. Making mistakes.” He pressed his forehead into Damen’s shoulder. “When I come to Ios and see how you rule, how effortlessly your people are drawn to you, how fiercely loyal your friends and advisors are, I… cannot deny that I feel inadequate in comparison.”

“Laurent,” said Damen, a note of quiet concern in his voice. “You say this as though you haven’t commanded armies or won the respect of even my most obstinate generals. You are an exceptional leader.”

Laurent sighed at the impotence of his own words. “I have managed to play that role somewhat successfully, yes. But it has never stopped feeling like a façade. Like I’m merely holding the throne until someone more respectable comes along. Someone without my family’s tarnished name. I have heard that threat repeated verbatim, as well.”

He paused, allowing the implication of the words to sink in. “I know that you are not without troubles of your own in Akielos,” he continued, pushing himself onto his elbow to look into Damen’s dark eyes. “It’s that I… I never entirely understood how profoundly… _alone_ I’d been, until you came into my life. You must have kept a piece of me for yourself somewhere along the way, because I have never felt whole without you since. And there is no one besides you in whom I can truly confide. When we are apart, your letters are my only escape.” His chest heaved, and he could no longer hide the emotion from showing in his expression. “I am so _desperately lonely_.”

He turned his face away, the thought of Damen seeing him like this becoming suddenly unbearable. He knew the problem lay entirely with himself—that his crippling inability to trust others with matters of the heart could not be magically fixed; nor could the damage that had made him that way ever be undone. Neither could he ask Damen—the one miraculous exception in his life—to be his only source of light at any given moment. It was unreasonable to expect, no matter how selfishly he yearned for it. And so, with embarrassing irony, the only thing Laurent found he could do was to lay himself bare before Damen, confessing all and expecting nothing in return. Because bottling it up had been slowly poisoning him for months. Because he’d been trapped in a self-serving cycle of misery.

Damen brushed the back of his hand against Laurent’s cheek. For a moment he said nothing, as though considering what approach to take in his response.

“Jord speaks very fondly of you,” he said, cautiously, at last. “He mentioned that he was concerned about your trip.”

“I am sure quite a few people are concerned that the King of Vere has suddenly fled his country," Laurent said, avoiding Damen’s gaze.

“His concern was personal. He’s very respectful.”

Laurent bowed his head and said nothing. Enough of Jord’s more colorful commentary had reached his ears during his days as Prince, although Jord _had_ proved himself extremely loyal over the years. And either time or experience had wisely straightened his tongue. Laurent respected him in his role as advisor, but he couldn’t picture the professional barrier between them ever being breached. As King, Laurent was forced to interact with people like Jord constantly, and it mattered little whether or not they had been allied since before the Regent’s fall. Every relationship, as far as he was concerned, was superficial.

“How is Vannes?” Damen’s voice again scattered his thoughts.

“She’s wonderful. Ambitious, sharp, discrete. And I cannot hold a conversation with her in private, lest I cause a scandal.”

It was infuriating that this was one messy aspect of Veretian society that he couldn’t blame on his uncle. Even more so that he _could_ nearly see himself opening up to Vannes on a more personal level, save for the cultural requirement of a chaperone between them—regardless of the fact that neither of them remotely fit each other’s obvious proclivities for bed partners.

Damen made a thoughtful sound.

“There was an attempt on her life recently,” continued Laurent, suddenly desiring to remove the focus from himself. He eased back into the mattress, more defeated than relaxed. “She was visiting the eastern district on business when a riot broke out. A group of dissenters recognized her and started throwing rocks. Luckily, Talik is protective, and has the means to follow through.”

Damen’s somber, silent gaze was growing unnerving.

“Herode is dead.” Laurent looked to him expectantly, waiting for him to react with anything other than benign sympathy. To say something meaningful and reassuring, like he always did.

Damen’s frown merely deepened. “I did receive word just a few days ago.”

“Whatever you might have heard, it wasn’t an accident.”

Damen nodded, his lips pressed tight.

“I’m almost afraid of what I’ll find when I return,” Laurent said, not concealing the desperation in his voice.

Damen’s arms were limp and heavy, and a look of uncharacteristic helplessness had settled over his features. Somewhere deep inside of himself, Laurent wanted to scream.

“You’re very quiet,” he said, instead.

Damen exhaled slowly. “I feel like anything I say will sound trite. You come to me bleeding, and all I can think to offer is a kiss for your wounds. It won’t heal them.”

Tears stung the corners of Laurent’s eyes. “Maybe that’s all I really wanted,” he said. His own voice was like an echo in his ears; far off and dissonant.

They came together slowly, fingers weaving tentatively through hair, lips careful and chaste. But before he even became aware of his own renewed need, Laurent was pushing his hips into Damen’s, and opening his mouth to accept his tongue.

He couldn’t have everything, but he could have _this_. Laurent let out a quiet gasp as he felt Damen shudder against his skin.

He broke away only to move his attention to the curve of Damen’s neck, relishing the heat already radiating from him. Damen’s hand travelled to Laurent’s thigh, grazing his flesh with his nails as Laurent kissed him back, hard. When Damen groaned, Laurent could feel the vibration in his throat.

With the next press of his hips, Laurent felt the curve of Damen’s cock next to his own, equally hard. Damen slipped his hand from Laurent’s thigh and found the both of them eager and wet. He ran his hand over their heads, then gripped them both by the shaft, together. Laurent gave a slow, slick thrust against him.

They rolled over on the mattress, Damen’s back to the pillows and Laurent astride him. Laurent continued to push into Damen’s hand, their cocks gliding against one another, stilted breaths growing audible.

Laurent searched Damen’s expression, as though seeking reassurance that they were justified in this carnal act in the face of so much hopelessness. It was brazen and desperate, and yet somehow the most sensible thing they could do. _The world is burning. Let’s fuck._

Heat and sensation and pressure were already threatening to overwhelm him. Laurent slowed his movements and placed a hand over Damen’s, gently guiding it away. He held Damen’s gaze as he pushed backwards and down. Then took a moment to steel himself before saying, “Hold my hair back.”

Damen stilled, as though the air had been knocked from his lungs.

“Do it,” said Laurent.

He swallowed the wave of panic that threatened to crash over him as he felt Damen’s hands carefully gathering the locks of his hair behind his head.

He didn’t allow himself the opportunity to think any further. With one hand wrapped around the base of Damen’s cock, he applied his lips to the head.

Laurent closed his eyes and centered his focus on _Damen_ —only Damen. His voice, his smell, his gentle touch. His length sliding into his mouth. The salty taste of his skin pressing against his tongue. There was nothing and no one in the world but his one true love, and he found himself immeasurably roused by the picture they painted in this moment.

Damen was beautifully vocal. When he uttered Laurent’s name, it came out like a growl; deep and raw and needy. He moaned encouragement, affirmation, his breaths irregular as he lost himself in pleasure. Gliding his free hand upward, Laurent ran his fingers over Damen’s abdominal muscles, delighting in the way they contracted as Damen fought to control his body’s reflexes. His grip on Laurent’s hair never tightened; his hips remained still. Even after all this time, he was still wonderfully considerate—never challenging Laurent’s particular needs, never probing without permission. Had Damen never come into his life, Laurent might never have loosened his laces.

As he dipped into the space between Damen’s legs, savoring the taste and texture of his cock and growing achingly hard in turn, he knew he wouldn’t trade this for any other future— _or_ past. He had found this font of happiness, and it was a pleasure to drink of it.

Laurent suddenly found he couldn’t hold himself back. He reached down and took his own length in hand, continuing to slide his lips and tongue over Damen’s shaft. Coordinating both sets of movements proved a bit challenging, but Laurent was so near to the edge, he knew the slight hitch in rhythm wouldn’t matter.

“Oh, _Laurent_ ,” Damen groaned, and his voice was so saturated with lust that Laurent knew he could see what he was doing to himself—and that he found it incredibly arousing.

Damen’s cock gave a telltale twitch against the roof of his mouth. He relaxed the muscles of his throat in time to receive the first wave of Damen’s orgasm, and he swallowed it down hungrily, his own pleasure heightening with the taste. The next hot rush he took in as well, and the third—and then he felt the dam inside himself break. He pulled away, perhaps a little prematurely, gasping for air as the last drops of Damen’s seed smeared across his cheek. Then his hand became wet and warm as his own cock spilled eagerly in turn.

Damen wiped the stain from Laurent’s jaw with his thumb, and then gently guided him up. His cheeks were flushed and dark. He hadn’t quite caught his breath before leaning in and kissing Laurent with all the passion and fervor of one utterly lost in his desire.

Laurent found himself trembling, the entire experience an overwhelming mix of emotions he’d weathered countless times before. But he knew now that this was _good_ —it was _safe_ and _love_ and _home_ —and, deep within his heart, he was certain it would only keep getting better.

* * *

The fire was at a full roar when Laurent, half laced into fresh pants and a soft shirt, returned to the bedroom. He found Damen lounging in a mess of cushions on the floor, his hair damp and loose cotton fabric draped over his legs. Laurent grabbed a blanket from the end of the bed and donned it like a cape before crossing the room. He knelt before the hearth, tossing one end of the blanket around Damen’s shoulders.

Damen plucked a peeled orange from the bowl in his lap and held out a wedge. A wry smile crept across Laurent’s lips before he took a delicate bite.

“Reward for a job well done?”

Damen grinned. “Can’t a man spoil his husband without feeling like he’s paying for services?” He offered the other half.

“I could ask the same question.” Laurent felt the tips of Damen’s fingers brush against his lips as he accepted the rest of the treat. He arranged himself comfortably on the cushions, pulling the other end of the blanket around himself and leaning into Damen’s side. He allowed his vision to slide out of focus as he stared absently at the dancing flames.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask that we don’t leave this room at all today,” he said, a bit dreamily.

Damen nuzzled the top of his head. “Unfortunately, there are a few things I need to take care of later. Most important of which is composing a list of those I’d like to send to Vere.”

Laurent’s eyebrows quirked. He pulled his attention away from the fire to direct an inquisitive glance at his husband.

“And you should consider who would make a good Veretian contingent in Akielos,” Damen continued. “I think we need to increase visibility and influence between our kingdoms.”

“It could turn militant very quickly.”

“I know. But I think everyone has had ample time to get used to the idea that our kingdoms are now connected. From the sound of things, it’s time for us to exert more pressure on the capitals, so that we can begin rearranging things in earnest.”

Laurent sighed. “It’s so difficult to know where the balance lies between strong leadership and manipulation.”

“Is it?” Damen studied his face. “You are _not_ your uncle. I think what comes naturally to you is nothing like the way the Regent operated. It sounds as though you have too much regard for the words of jealous men.”

“Theirs have been the loudest and most insistent voices surrounding me for many, many years now,” said Laurent, returning his gaze to the fire. It was true; during his uncle’s reign, he’d been called _cold, obstinate, troublesome,_ and he had not been properly taught to lead. Upon ascending the throne, the whispers shifted to _incompetent, weak, irresponsible_ , as though his uncle’s determination to find fault with his every act had permeated the air itself, thereby outliving him. The only consistently positive messages Laurent ever received were now contained in a simple wooden box, hidden like a child’s treasure in a nook within his chambers, the key to which was likewise stowed in secret. Tucked inside the box was a stack of letters, all penned in a small, sloping script and signed, _With love,_ _DV_.

There was a sudden tickle against his ear as Damen’s beard brushed his sensitive skin. A tender kiss followed, high upon his cheek.

“I’m sorry I can’t accompany you back to Arles myself,” said Damen. “But I’m sure the time will pass quickly now, with so much to accomplish before we meet at Marlas in three months.”

“Three months?” Laurent’s heart fluttered, and he wondered when Damen had grown so mischievous.

Damen smiled. “There will _never_ be a good opportunity to make this move. Something will always come up; there will always be another crisis or excuse. We just have to dive in, selfish as it may be. Don’t you agree?”

The idea was at once thrilling and terrifying. Three months was a very short amount of time in which to make the changes necessary to transfer the seat of power of both countries to the border. But they had accomplished incredible feats under pressure before, and Damen was right—an easy opportunity was unlikely to present itself. They would have to _make_ the opportunity themselves, _for_ themselves.

There was always the chance that it would be a disaster. But if they succeeded, the reward would make the many long months of separation and hardship worthwhile, and their lives and countries would only grow more prosperous from there. For all their individual successes over the years, they worked even better as a team, and both of them knew it.

Laurent looked to Damen, and felt _hopeful_ for the first time in as long as he could remember. “Three months puts us at the spring solstice,” he said. He could see the flames reflected in Damen’s eyes, accentuating something bright and youthful in his expression.

“A fine time of year in Delpha, as I recall.”

The fire, the blanket, and the closeness of their bodies had so thoroughly warmed Laurent that he felt the heat rise from his collar and spread across his cheeks. He thought of all the ways in which he had come to know Damen over the years: as a companion, as a lover, as a King. Gaps still lingered in his knowledge—just as in so many other aspects of his life—but for the first time, he considered it a _delight,_ rather than a reason for despair. Nearly two years married, and there was still so much to discover. Another three months was nothing compared to the rest of their lives.

“What do you say?” Damen’s voice had a ring to it, contagiously hopeful. “Do you think we can make this work?”

A boundless swell of joy filled Laurent’s heart near to bursting as he answered, not for the first time:

“I do, Damianos.”


End file.
